“Do you think you’ll ever get married, Lucy?” Lucy shifted uncomfortably as she pulled her makeshift nightgown—an old T-shirt—over her head. His car, a black Alfa Romeo, waited at the end of the subdivision. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. “Because I know for a fact that she was having sex with Gary Rothko during homecoming Freshman year and she let him pork her up the ass. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Her thick body was heavy and massive. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. Sheppard. Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. I’ve accustomed myself to think of you— as if you were like every other girl who works at the schools—as something quite outside these possibilities.
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